Cinderella
by Firebird9
Summary: Jack Robinson is determined to avoid the humiliation of the Policeman and Fireman's Ball. Phryne Fisher is equally determined to play fairy godmother. Prompted by WhatsABriard.


**Cinderella**

**Author:** Firebird9

**Rating:** T (mild sexual references)

_Written especially for WhatsABriard. Because I really don't want her kids, but I'd do almost anything for chocolate._

_DivineMissP, I apologise for more-or-less pinching your line about tarts. It was just too good not to borrow. And Xfphile, my apologies to you as well, for pinching the thing about Phryne ordering clothing for Jack. Will you forgive me if I offer to share WhatsABriard's chocolate with you?_

_Continuity-wise, this fic is set somewhere between 2.03 and 2.07. Apologies for my poor descriptive abilities: Phryne hasn't bought a new dress for this affair but has instead resurrected her gown from 1.1_

* * *

"So, Cinderella, will you be going to the Ball?"

Dottie and Hugh have withdrawn to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some biscuits, Hugh having managed – three weeks in advance: the boy is growing up – to issue an invitation to the Firemen and Policemen's Ball to Dot in the front hall at the conclusion of their latest case, and Phryne has, with a quirk of her eyebrow and a tilt of her head, invited Jack into the parlour for a drink.

"I really don't think so, Miss Fisher." He accepts the proffered whiskey and leans against the mantlepiece, trying, as he so often does, to conceal his discomfort at her line of questioning.

"Why not?"

He shrugs. "Someone has to man the station. And the Ball is really more for the younger men, anyway."

"So this has nothing to do with your lack of a partner?"

He is irritated, suddenly, by her insistence on intruding into every aspect of his life, and his answer is curt, his tone short. "Not that I would expect you to understand, but when a married man turns up at an event like this without his wife, the gossip begins almost immediately. And when he's there alone because his wife sought a divorce in order to marry another man..." He trails off and looks away, downing most of the whiskey in one.

"It can't be easy." Her tone is conciliatory, which somehow makes it worse.

He sighs, and his reply is apologetic. "It isn't."

She changes the subject then – their murderer, his motive, the likelihood that he will hang – and Jack is relieved that the conversation has moved on.

...

The station is quiet three weeks later, most of the skeleton crew out on duty, Jack himself manning the desk while the duty constable (not Collins, for obvious reasons) processes a drunk and disorderly who has very conveniently decided to stagger into the station before creating a Public Nuisance, thereby saving them the bother of going out and finding him, when the door opens suddenly to admit a dark-haired human tornado.

"Ah, there you are." She is plainly pleased to see him, and Jack can't quite suppress a smile at the thought that there is at least one woman on the planet who doesn't find his company unbearable. A sudden thought crosses his mind: what if he had invited Phryne to the Ball? He shakes it away. Police Inspectors do not invite Bright Young society Things to their dances.

"Were you wanting something, Miss Fisher?" Please, God, let it be a murder. There's nothing quite like working a murder case with Phryne Fisher to take his mind off everything else. He is slightly unnerved, however, when her smile turns artful, and he realises that she's wearing a long coat which conceals her entire body from her ankles to her neck. He feels his heart-rate increase slightly. The last time she turned up with anything approaching that much of her clothing concealed, she promptly threw the coat back to reveal a clinging, sparkly, lacy... _costume_ which left entirely too little to the imagination, and which has cropped up in his own imaginings entirely too often ever since. She also has something which resembles a bundle of fabric slung over one arm, and his second 'please, God, let it be a murder!' is significantly more heartfelt, because he has a sudden suspicion that she's Up To Something.

"Well, I was thinking about what you said, about the Ball, and I realised you're absolutely right. You can't possibly turn up alone. What you need is a partner-" he thinks he can see where this is going and wants to protest, but seems to have lost the power of speech "-preferably someone beautiful, charming, and with whom the majority of your audience already believes you're sleeping." She dumps her burden on the reception desk and throws back her coat to reveal... it is, mercifully, nothing like the dress she wore when she was undercover at the circus. It's long and deep red, with cream closer to the hem, and cut to accent every line and curve of her upper body before flaring out around her legs. It is, even he can see, stunning, and he loses the power of speech all over again at the thought that this nymph, this _vision_, is standing before him offering to escort him to an event which is so far beneath her that it wouldn't even register on her social calendar under any other circumstances. Her eyes dance at his expression. "Yes, Cinderella, you shall go to the Ball."

For a moment he just gapes. He can't, a part of him thinks. Divorced is one thing, but to turn up with a, with a _mistress_, is unthinkable. Except that another part of him thinks that it might, in fact, be a very good idea indeed. Certainly it will do wonders for his ego, which has taken something of a battering over the past few months and years. And Phryne's right when she says that the majority of those who know them already think they're sleeping together. It's not as if it will be entirely unexpected, and most of his men are on friendly enough terms with her that they will make her feel welcome, while the few (and he knows who they are, even though they'd never dare say it to his face) who refer to her disparagingly as 'the Inspector's tart' will, at least, be unsurprised.

He sees an excuse, and grasps at it. "Unfortunately, Miss Fisher, I have nothing to wear."

"Of course you do." She picks up her bundle from the counter, and he realises that it's a garment bag. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Don't tell me you broke into my house."

"Of course not." That's a relief. "I visited your tailor." Which is almost as alarming as the idea that she's been snooping around inside his house.

"And how exactly did you find out who my tailor is?"

She rolls her eyes at his obtuseness. "I asked Hugh."

Another excuse presents itself. "Well, I'm afraid I can't. I'm working."

"Nonsense. Unless something urgent arises the station can manage quite happily without you for one night. And even if something does come up, they'll know where to find you." He can't argue with that. "Now, into your office and get changed. I want to get there before everyone's too drunk to be suitably impressed by our arrival." Of course, he thinks, because heaven forbid that Phryne Fisher should simply arrive at a Ball when she could be making an Entrance.

He heads to the station washroom first for a sluice-down and a shave, because if he's going to be party to Phryne's latest madness – and he's now determined that he will – then he's going to do it properly. He returns to his office to change, relieved when Phryne simply hands him the garment bag and leans against the front desk with a knowing smirk rather than following him in in an effort to 'help' him change. The suit is, of course, perfectly made to his exact measurements in a fine charcoal wool so dark as to be almost black, and she has included a tie of dark red silk and a snowy white shirt. He dresses swiftly and rejoins her. She looks him up and down and nods approvingly.

"Just perfect."

"I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of you buying me clothing."

"Oh, I had them send bill to your house."

He gives a resigned smile, then offers her his arm. "Of course you did. Shall we?"

The Hispano is parked outside and he makes himself comfortable in the passenger's seat. It's only a short drive to the hotel where the Ball is being held, and music, light and laughter spill out onto the street as he walks to the door with her on his arm. She has left her coat in the car, replacing it with a fur wrap, and he thinks that she will be overdressed. On the heels of that thought comes the realisation that that is probably her intention. She will, without doubt, be the best-dressed woman in the room and, while some of the women will hate her for it, he is confident that within half an hour the majority of the guests -male and female both - will be at least a little in love with her. Not to mention the fact that he will get to be the man with the best-dressed woman in the room on his arm.

They pause on the doorstep, and she throws him a look of pure mischief. He feels himself grinning in return, his mind flashing back to the murders in Queenscliff a few weeks earlier. Killings aside, that investigation had been – there was no other word for it – fun. Heads turn as they enter, and the whispering starts almost immediately, but for the first time in a long while he realises that he doesn't care. With Phryne as impish as a schoolgirl on his arm he himself feels as emboldened as a schoolboy embarking on a lark. This is a game to her, and it's one he's more than happy to play. So let them whisper. That is, after all, the idea.

They leave her fur and his coat at the check desk, and then he fetches them both a drink of punch. He has no idea what's in it, but one sip tells him that it's fairly lethal. Just the way Phryne likes it, he has no doubt. She chimes her glass with his and meets his eye, smiling as she sips. The band strikes up a foxtrot, and she smiles at him again.

"Ask me to dance," she tells him.

He hesitates - it's been a while since he danced - then shrugs. "Don't blame me if I tread on your toes."

"Well, it might make up for all the times I've trodden on yours."

He's surprised by how well he dances with her, although he supposes he shouldn't be. In the last few months they've found a rhythm together in their lives that feels somehow right. It has occurred to him that this same sense of harmony might also spill over well into the bedroom, but tonight he steers his thoughts firmly away from that idea. He has no intention of ruining their game by taking it too seriously.

The dance finishes, and he bows slightly to her before escorting her back to their drinks. As he does so, he happens to catch George Sanderson's eye. His ex-father-in-law doesn't look particularly happy, and Jack can't help but feel a certain grim pleasure at that. After all, Rosie had left him, not the other way around, and now here he is with a beautiful and captivating woman on his arm having more fun at one of these things than he can recall having since 1913. He raises his glass and toasts the Deputy Commissioner before returning his attention to Phryne.

"Inspector, Miss Fisher." Dot and Hugh join them, both smiling happily and clearly having a wonderful time.

"Constable Collins. How are you enjoying your evening?"

"It's been wonderful, sir, really good. Thank you for making sure I could attend."

"You're most welcome. And Miss Williams?"

"Oh, it's just lovely, Inspector. All the lights, and the music, and the beautiful dresses."

Her own dress, he notices, can't compare to Phryne's – but then, few women can compare sartorially to Miss Phryne Fisher even amongst the most elite circles. The wives and sweethearts of a bunch of police officers and firemen don't stand a chance.

The rest of the evening flies by in a blur of dancing, laughter, and just enough alcohol to ensure that their spirits remain high. Phryne is at her dazzling best and flirts outrageously with him. Entering into the spirit of things, he flirts back almost as much. It's harmless, he knows, but to an outsider their private game must appear very serious indeed. The whispers continue, but Phryne seems, if anything, amused by the scandalised reactions she receives from some of the older and more conservative couples present, reporting some of the tastier snippets back to him with a positively gleeful expression on her face. She dances with a number of men, but never more than one dance each, and never more than one or two before returning to Jack. Clearly she is taking her role as his lover seriously.

At last he glances at the clock.

"Almost midnight," he comments.

"I promise you, the suit won't turn to rags when the clock strikes twelve. Besides, I already know where to find you, so it's not as if I'd need a glass slipper to track you down."

"Regardless, I'm afraid I'll need to make my way home very shortly. I can hardly berate the men for turning up late and hungover if I'm in no better state myself."

"I'm more than happy to drive you."

He smiles once again, and realises that he can't recall the last time he smiled as much as he has tonight. "I'd appreciate that, thank you."

She leans into him as he helps her into her fur and then, when he offers her his arm, ducks beneath it instead, slipping her own arm around his waist and pressing closely into him. Surprised, he looks down into laughing jade eyes.

"Let them see us leaving together, Jack. Let them see us _together_. Give them all something to think about the next time they start whispering about exactly why your marriage ended."

He grins and hugs her back. "You really are nothing but trouble," he tells her, but his tone is light, filled with laughter and affection.

She smirks smugly at him. "I know."

...

He doesn't catch all of the conversation that he interrupts when he arrives at the station the next morning, but he does hear the words 'Inspector' and 'tart', and this time he decides he's had enough of whispers. Striding confidently around the corner he grins nastily at the two officers he has just surprised and speaks in clear, cheerful tones. "My tart indeed. And damn sweet she is too. But of course, neither of you will ever get so much as a taste."

Phryne, he's sure, would forgive him. Heck, she'd probably laugh herself sick if she knew.


End file.
